Through His Eyes
by palaces.out.of.paragraphs
Summary: One-shot. He's seen it coming. He should have seen it the moment he met her when they were at Brancaster, dancing, and her eyes were focused on Tom. The fall of Henry and Mary's marriage as he watches her fall in love with another man. Set entirely though his eyes.
_**This is a thank you for 100+ reviews of my Brary story, "I Was Glad". Thank you so much for your continuous support. I don't know what my next writing venture will be but here is a little thank you.**_

 _ **On this, I decided to challenge myself by writing from Henry Toolbutt's viewpoint in an attempt to give him more depth. He's dismissed in some fics I've read (including what I wrote) so I thought I would try and drag it out in a way that was not irritating. Aside from my Brary heart, this was**_ **hard** _ **because we honestly weren't given a lot to make us love him on the show. I'll stop ranting now and just, enjoy!**_

Henry slipped under the bed covers, his wife beside him. She was propped up by several pillows with a book in her hands. She smiled at him and he pulled the strength to smile back. He could never tell her the truth. That he was bored out of his bloody mind. His living arrangements were more than satisfactory. He had a beautiful woman next to him. He was living in what felt like a castle compared to his previous home. Downton was amazing and he understood why Mary had invested in it. But the lifestyle was so different. He found himself in a routine, and Henry Talbot did not like routines.

Marrying Mary had meant everything to him. He had been a bachelor all his life, no woman meeting his expectations. Then, he met Mary Crawley. He was struck by her beauty immediately and vowed to know her better. She was now his wife and that had been his greatest achievement ever. Henry knew in marrying her he would have to adjust the way he lived. It wouldn't be simple, but marriages supposedly never were. He had thought the biggest hurdle would be getting little George Crawley to like and respect him.

George. The kid was charming and intelligent. Henry found it easy to like George and assimilate him into his routine. The little boy looked nothing like Mary though and everything, apparently, like her late husband. Matthew Crawley. The man's name was whispered like a god. It was clear Lord Grantham missed the man greatly, speaking of him like the son he never had. Henry had been uncomfortable. Shifting in his shoes at the idea people saw him as Mr. Crawley's _replacement_. Nothing more than a man needed to guide little George and keep Mary from getting lonely. His fist curled at the thought and he quickly pushed it away.

"Henry, what is wrong?"

He realized he had begun to look quite uneasy and forced a smile onto his face. "Nothing, dear. Nothing."

Mary raised a delicate eyebrow, but said nothing more.

His thoughts drifted back to Mr. Matthew Crawley. It sounded as if he were a man who had never sinned; a gentleman who always did what was right. Henry had appeared at first as just "the man who liked to drive fast". Shaking his head, he vowed not to compare himself any longer. He did not wish to continue thinking of himself as just the second husband. Mary didn't look at him that way. Or so he hoped.

God, he hoped.

/

Her stomach begins to protrude and Henry cannot possibly describe the joy it brings him. She is rather annoyed at it as her palms splay out against her pale stomach.

In his eyes, she has never looked so radiant.

"That is what pregnancy does," his mother-in-law says. He can't help but agree. She seems lighter despite the fact she is gaining weight.

Mary talks about their child joining the Bates' son in the nursery. She begins planning even though they have months before their bundle will arrive.

When she's not planning, she is working.

She strides the grounds of Downton Abbey with Tom and the new dog. They talk merrily and walk till their cheeks are pink.

He can't help but watch them. He's just being an overprotective husband because of her condition, he reasons. Even so, his eyes never leave the Irishman.

Shaking his head, Henry moves away from the window. Tom is a _friend_. Everything Henry has, is because of that man.

When they enter the house, Henry meets them. Tom greets him and begins to jump into a discussion about cars. Mary rolls her eyes as takes her hat off. Smiling she kisses both their cheeks before leaving to find her mother and George.

"How was your walk?" Henry asks. He hopes his voice is level. Goddammit, he hopes his voice is level. Because he cannot lose his one friend in this house. The rest of them regard him as family, a distant member of family. But Tom—Tom, shares of love of cars and an understanding of a different world. Henry grabbed onto that fact with no intention of letting go. He cannot lose his friend now. Besides, it was just a walk. They are friends and it was just a walk. He repeats this mantra as he tries to listen to Tom.

After all, is her name not Mary Talbot?

/

It is their first time at Brancaster and he holds his wife close. The battle between Mary and her sister will never truly end, he thinks. It's obvious as her shoulders tense up as the car pulls up front. The rest of the family are eager to get out and see Edith and Marigold.

Mary stays closer to the back, her familiar nonchalant expression in place. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her closer. "Look happy, darling,'" he murmurs. Mary shifts in his hold and pouts. He can't help but quickly press his lips to hers.

Then, the family is suddenly ushered into the grand house. Mary falls in step with Tom whose eyes are also focused on the grand ceiling of Edith Pelham's new home.

"My, I'd forgotten how magnificent this place was," said Henry. It was odd to realize he was family with people who owned this sort of home.

He felt a bit lost and it was clear Tom did too. And _that_ was why Henry needed the friendship with Tom. They had never grown up with such pleasures—not to such an extent. They understood how another part of the world worked in a way such aristocratic people wouldn't.

"Quite the place Edith has landed, hmm?" he asked Tom.

"I did forget the size of Brancaster. It suits them though, even if Bertie is at a loss still with such responsibility."

"This place is like Buckingham Palace compared to Downton."

At this, Tom's expression changes. Henry wonders if he should regret his words. The thing about Tom, is that he loves Downton Abbey as much as the Crawleys. He appreciates the building in such a way that pleases Mary, Robert, and the lot to no end. Tom just appreciates the Crawley family.

Henry's mind wanders to Tom's deceased wife. Mary's youngest sister. Sybil, her name was. She is brought up during holidays and the moments when Mary's eyes glaze over and she turns to Tom and offers him a soft smile.

Sybil Branson was apparently the rebel of the family, though in a kind hearted way. She wore pantaloons—or tried to—and worked and spoke out for women. She was passionate in a way that separated her from her sisters. She brought Mary and Edith together, Mary had said. But more than that, she had brought Tom Branson into the Crawley's lives forever. Mary had mentioned that as well.

Henry felt a sort of sadness mixed with guilt as he focused back on Tom. "Sorry, that came out rather harsh."

Shrugging, the man replied, "It's fine. Though I would not say that to Mary."

Both men laughed, but Henry did not find a thing funny. He wished he did. He patted Tom's shoulder and moved closer to Mary. His wife was smiling politely as Edith talked about how wonderful Bertie was with Marigold.

Henry smiled then. He would get to understand this as well. Of course there was George. George was a fine young boy who was smart and considerate. He liked to hear about cars from Henry and enjoyed visiting with him in the middle of the day. However, George was Matthew Crawley's son. His blond hair and smile were proof of that. It wasn't that Henry could not love George because he could. He was loving him. But a child that was solely his blood and Mary's was all he wanted. And they would have that.

The family shuffled into the library for tea; Henry was between Mary and Tom. His mood felt lighter. He had a wife who was pregnant and a friend who liked cars. This was the life he wanted.

/

They are in one of the many rooms of the house, Mary's shoulder rubbing against his as she gets comfortable under the sheets.

"This was quite a tiring day."

"I enjoyed myself. It was nice, seeing Edith and Bertie."

"I suppose. But really, Edith did not have to keep talking about all the features of the house. We have been here before."

"She's just proud to finally have a place to call hers. Where she is hostess."

Mary shuffled. "Still."

"We could have that too."

"And leave Downton? Henry we've talked about this. I had hoped you had moved on from the idea because you know—"

"Downton is your everything. Yes, darling, I know. It's just—would you really not want a place to call ours? Where we could know each other better. Just us and the children."

Mary's shoulders tensed and she pursed her lips. He expected a scowl, but her eyes showed no emotion. "I'm rather tired of having this conversation."

"So that is a no? You are not even open to thinking about it?"

"Downton is where I need to be. For my sake. For George's sake."

"But what about our baby?"

Mary was now frowning. "I was raised in Downton. It is the best possible option we have. Are you saying I did not turn out right? Or your beloved Edith? Or Sybil?"

He knew it was the pregnancy. Mary's emotions fluctuated faster than they ever had since he had known her. She could be vibrant and excited one moment to brooding the next. He shouldn't have said anything. He should have let her calm down. "That is not what I'm saying. And I didn't know Sybil."

Her face turned expressionless as she regarded him. Henry sat back against the pillows. God, he'd screwed up. Why again, did she tolerate him? "Mary…"

"No, you did not know her." Her eyes flickered to the door. Was she thinking about Tom? Henry instantly banished the thought. He trusted Mary, really he did. He loved her like had never loved a woman before. He drowned in her presence. She was his world now, not cars. Her gaze fell on him again. "I'm going to sleep now."

"I love you," he whispered.

Her damp hair, which was several inches longer, clung to her cheeks. Licking her lips, she nodded.

/

She is gazing fondly at him by lunch the next day. He feels relief wash through him as her red lips press against his cheek in greeting. She pulls away and there is a light in her eyes.

She sits between her mother and Tom and continues gazing at him. A small smile tugs at her lips.

It cannot be anything other than _right_.

/

Henry is not there when it happens. He is off doing something or another to fight the boredom he so wishes would disappear.

It is Anna the maid, who allegedly finds her. They relay the story to him as he sits in the chair, his finger nails digging into his knees.

She was not okay. The baby was not okay. The pregnancy was not okay. Fourteen or fifteen weeks of not okay.

There was blood, probably. She had felt an unexpected pain and had rang the bell for Anna. She had not known what was going on.

But Anna had.

The doctor now took over explaining details. "These things happen," he said, his hands turning upwards. He talked about deformities or an accident or whatever. Henry had not been able to process the scientific aspect of it. The doctor said the medical field was making advancements to stop miscarriages. Miscarriages. She had a miscarriage.

"The baby is gone, Mr. Talbot. I'm so sorry for your loss."

His world crashed. The baby, their baby was gone. Why? Goddammit why? Why the fuck did this happen? Why to him? To them?

It couldn't have been her. She had one successful pregnancy. The family mentioned Sybil Branson having preeclampsia and then, eclampsia. The doctor was quick to assure them that was not what this was.

Henry dug his nails harder into his knee caps. Dammit what happened?

"Can I see her?" he asked. His breaths were labored as he faced the older man.

"You may," Clarkson replied.

Henry tore down the hall. She was barely propped up, her hair pulled out of her face. She did not acknowledge his presence.

"Mary. Oh, Mary."

He waited for her to speak, to meet his eyes. But she sat looking forward, her hands brushing against the blanket.

"Mary, talk to me."

Her head turned and she stared. No raised eyebrow, no anything.

"How are you?"

"The baby is dead," she whispered.

Henry nodded. "Yes—yes I know."

"There was no chance to save it. There never would have been."

"Well, perhaps—"

" _No_. There never would have been."

"Our baby," he whispered. "What happened?"

"Something perhaps with the egg," she said. Her cheeks turned pink. "Or, the sperm."

"Oh."

"And my age, perhaps. I should not get pregnant, perhaps."

"You…" he trailed off. What was he to say?

"Do you blame me?"

He struggles to find words. No one was to blame for this, not really. Not herself, not him, not the doctor. These things had happened before and would continue to. Still, he cannot utter the words. She needs rest and little excitement. He knows what he has to say. But his heart is broken and he cannot function and it's an excuse, but fuck it he is _tired._

"I see," Mary replies. There is bitterness in her tone as she looks at him.

"Mary—"

"Go. Now, Henry Talbot."

He registers the fact he is walking out the door, shutting it behind him. It's all suddenly breaking and what does he do? He is just a newly married guy who was expecting a baby. What does he do?

He thinks about how Matthew Crawley becomes a father and then is taken away from his child. Henry was becoming—became a father and then his child is taken away from him. Why is life twisted like that?

He walks down the hall, aimlessly trying to find Robert, Cora, and Tom Branson.

It was a son, he thinks. A son, he knows.

/

"Don't let this be the end for us, Mary. This is hard and we shouldn't have to go through this but we will get through it. Together. Husband and wife."

"You act like something is failing."

"You barely look at me. I know you are grieving, but so am I. I have so much hurt in my heart. But I want this marriage to work. We can try again or not, but let's focus on us now."

Her hands have been picking at her book, but she stops. She stares at him.

They sit in silence, but it's far less hostile.

"Tom and I are going on a walk later. You may join us if you would like."

He nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak or feel. He nods and smiles half-heartedly.

/

It's been nine weeks since their world changed. They are not okay, but they will be. It is Henry's first big loss outside of Charlie, and oh his grandfather, he supposes.

But Mary knows loss well. As does the rest of the family. As does Tom. And perhaps that is the reason she gravitates to him, even all these weeks later.

He makes her laugh and brings her out of the dark because, well, he has done this before. She leans on him in a way that would be beautiful if it wasn't for the fact that she is his wife and that _should_ be him.

He tries to keep his distance though in an effort to make her happy and more at ease. He talks to Cora about this and that and asks Robert about Downton more than usual. He has to put in double the effort. Besides, if he does that he cannot focus on the fact his baby is no more.

He looks forward to seeing others though and he has traveled to London twice. It is familiar and comforting as he strolls the streets among people who are experiencing this wayward adventure of life also.

He telephones Mary and their conversation drifts to casual topics. The weather, the fashion of London, his friends. He tells her he misses her and his knuckles are white as he clutches the telephone. She quickly says she does as well and then confesses she must hang up because Isobel and Lord Merton are coming for dinner.

They part ways and he feels like he is in another universe, drifting away. He should be at Downton, really he should.

He comes home the day after and she is there in a cream colored dress, hugging him. It is a short hug and he is passed on into Cora's arms. Tom shakes his hand and promises to speak with Henry about Mary later.

They are off to tea and Mary's grandmother is there to add witty remarks. She asks about London in a way that suggests she does not approve of his recent venture out. He can't help but feel claustrophobic as all the Crawleys settle across from him and gaze at him.

Finally, they split off and Henry pulls Tom away to speak alone.

"Mary is laughing more again. She is smiling. She even bickered with Edith on a way that suggested there was no threats or name calling."

Henry cannot help but laugh. "I suppose I have you to thank for that."

Tom's cheeks turn reddish and suddenly Henry is seeing him in a new light. Tom's eyes flicker away for a second before returning and damn he is a bit of an open book. "It's all of us."

Henry does not refute his statement. He doesn't want to. He kind of wants to deck him. But he won't because Tom is the only one who understands him and he needs a friend. An ally. So he settles for his left hand curling into a fist and lightly punching Tom's shoulder. He forces a laugh and suggests they return to the family.

What does he do?

/

They're laughing across from each other at dinner. Mary leans forward and Henry swears her eyelashes flutter.

But Violet is trying to speak to him and he turns away.

/

It is several weeks later and Henry is tired. Henry realized he had watched his wife fall into the arms of another man. Perhaps she had always belonged to another man. To Tom Branson. Because that man knew her when she was a young woman, when she was first married, when she grieved. He had been there and knew her in a way Henry could not possibly fathom.

It hurt, the realization.

He wondered if they knew it. If they knew they loved each other in that way. For a moment he hopes they do not. But fuck, he can't do this to himself anymore. He can't do it to her either.

He finds her alone in the library in a rare moment alone, sitting by the window. Her hair is longer now and in a new style. The sun hits her cheeks and she is focused on the novel in her lap.

"Mary, we should talk."

She simply nods and sets the book aside. Her gaze is drawn outside and somewhere in the distance he can see Tom Branson with little Sybbie. They are sitting on a bench.

"Mary do you love me?" he asks.

Her eyes are wide and he watches as she flounders for a moment. "Why are you asking? The answer is yes, of course."

He shakes his head. "Do you love me the way a wife is supposed to love her husband?"

"What are you implying?"

"Mary you don't love me. This isn't working. It is clear to me now. Mary I love you. God, it is maddening how much I love you. It's been a whirlwind with you, it always has been. But I think we are both realizing a bit too late that we aren't meant for this. Not with each other."

She's good at hiding her expressions, his Mary. "So you believe me indifferent towards you?"

"No. I think you loved me. Or love me to some degree. But this marriage is not what we hoped it would be, what it should be."

"Henry—"

"Please admit that. We've gone through many things and somehow we are still the same. Not farther apart or closer, just there. I love you too much for us to continue living this way. I want a divorce."

"Divorce?" she whispers.

"I love you Mary, but you love him. And it's unfair for you and me to continue behaving like this marriage is alright."

Her eyebrows raise at the mention of Tom. All she asks is, "This is real? This is final?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I see."

"I'm sorry Mary. I think we both are."

She moved closer. "You were what I needed in that moment. You made me feel alive and loved; I couldn't possibly forget that."

"Darlin', I love you," he said. He moved closer and she didn't step away. His lips met hers and a sad thought filled his brain that this was the last time he would kiss Mary Talbot—no, soon Mary Crawley.

/

They are both upfront about the divorce and the family are at different levels of shock. Henry promises no hard feelings and bids goodbye to George as well, who had become a good little buddy.

Cora looks saddest to see him go and she pesters him with questions about why this is all happening so fast. But it is not fast to Henry. He's seen it coming. He should have seen it the moment he met her when they were at Brancaster, dancing, and her eyes were focused on Tom.

Tom Branson. He shakes his hand goodbye and offers to walk him out. After all, they are business partners too.

"I'm terribly sorry, Henry. I cannot help but feel as if it's my fault."

Henry wants to snort, but he says nothing. He gets into the car and Tom steps up to close the door and Henry can almost picture him in a chauffeur's livery. He leans forward and says, "Just love her. That's how you can repay me."

Tom's blue eyes convey shock as he stares at the man. Henry shrugs and pulls the door shut himself. He has said all he wants to, leave the rest to them. He loves her and he always will, but she loves the Irishman. He can't resent them, not ever. And fuck, they're perfect together.

The car pulls away in a fashion much to slow for Henry.

 _ **Thank you for reading. Please review letting me know what you think. It's been a couple weeks since I wrote something and I just had to get this off my chest before I continue my hiatus.**_

 _ **I hope I added some depth to Henry that made him less annoying, not pleasurable, weird, crass, etc.**_

 _ **You may find me on tumblr: mrsmarybranson**_


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